A Christmas Dance

by Alissa Johnson

  She let herself rest against the back cushions of the settee, and blew out a quick breath of both relief and resignation. He wasn’t going to shame her, but neither was he going to let the matter drop. “I suppose one is born with an innate awareness of it.”

  “We’re born with an innate awareness of a great many abilities,” he pointed out. “Generally, a proper education dissuades us from taking advantage of the most ill-advised.”

  She gave him what she hoped was a haughty sort of look. “Like eavesdropping on two unsuspecting young women?”

  “Nothing ill-advised about eavesdropping. It’s a remarkably useful tool. It’s getting caught in the act that I’d advise against.”

  She rather thought the same could be said for her talent. “But you would advise admitting to it?”

  “In this case, yes.” His eyes darted to her mouth. “It’s provided me with the most interesting conversation I’ve had in some time.”

  She resisted the sudden urge to lick her lips. “Perhaps you should be more particular with whom you converse.”

  “Difficult, when those I most wish to speak with are so often nowhere to be found. Miss Meldrin and yourself are deuced elusive creatures.”

  Patience tried and failed not to feel disappointed at the pointed mention of her friend. It was no secret the Earl of Casslebury was considering taking a wife. Nor was it a secret that men of wealth and position did not make plain women of neither family nor fortune into countesses. They chose pretty young ladies of consequence. Young ladies such as Caroline Meldrin.

  No doubt the Earl sought information about her friend, or perhaps he hoped to inspire jealousy. Either way, his interest lay elsewhere.

  She should have known, should have realized his intentions from the very start. But he’d been standing before her, looking so terribly handsome in his dark evening wear. Handsome, strong, and so wonderfully dependable. How a man could look dependable, she couldn’t quite say. She might have said it was his self-assured aristocratic bearing, but his features weren’t refined quite enough for that. His jaw was too broad, his cheekbones too sharp, and his eyes and hair too dark. Perhaps it was the military carriage of his tall, muscled frame, or his deep commanding voice, or. . .Well, she had no idea, he simply exuded a sense of dependability she found most attractive. Her heart always leapt at the sight of him. When he’d asked her to dance, it had nearly burst from her chest.

  Likely it was best that it was now settled uncomfortably at her feet. It wouldn’t do to build hopes around such an unlikely prospect. She pushed away her disenchantment and tried to recall what excuse Caroline had given for their latest disappearance.

  “Caroline’s hem required mending,” she said, relatively certain that had been the one.

  The corner of his mouth hooked up. “Miss Meldrin’s gowns require a great deal of mending, it seems to me. One would think she’d have switched modistes by now.”

  “Yes. . .Well. . .” She fixed her eyes on the wall behind him. “She’s quite loyal.”

  “You must be as well.” He caught and held her gaze. “To lie for her.”

  She narrowed her eyes a fraction. “Are you teasing me, Lord Casslebury?”

  “I am, yes.”

  “I see.” She gave that some consideration. “Are you in the habit of teasing ladies you barely know?”

  “No.” He looked mildly baffled. “I believe you may be the first woman other than my sister that I have ever teased.”

  “Oh, well.” She felt a flutter in her chest and wondered how on earth one responded to such an admission. “I. . .Thank you?”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, then burst into laughter.

  Apparently, that was not how one was supposed to respond to such an admission.

  “You surprise me, Miss Byerly,” he finally managed to say.

  “I imagine I do,” she muttered. She wondered how great a surprise she would have been to him a year ago, before she’d had the opportunity to acquire at least a handful of social graces.

  “You give a very different impression than the person you seem to truly be,” he said.

  “There are a great many in the ton who do the same,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, but not quite so much by accident, I think.”

  Not every false impression she gave was an accident, but she wasn’t about to admit to that after less than an hour of the man’s acquaintance, even if it was preceded by a much longer fascination on her part. “You make me sound like an ingénue.”

  “I don’t know I’d call you that, specifically, but there is--”

  He broke off when the elderly man in front of the fire suddenly launched to his feet, his substantial weight sending the heavy chair scratching against the floor. “Ah ha! I have it! I have it! Around the magnet!” The man bounded toward them, clothes askew, white hair standing on end, and blue eyes wide and wild. “It goes round the magnet!” He came to a stop in front of Patience, jabbed a finger toward the ceiling, and spun the index finger of his other hand around the first. “Do you see? Around! Ha!”

  Patience felt the stirrings of panic. “Yes, I see.” She said soothingly, rising slowly from her seat. “Why don’t we sit down and you can tell--”

  “Around!” He jabbed his finger up again and bolted from the room.

  “Oh, dear.” Oh, damn it all to hell. “I. . .” She gave Lord Casslebury an apologetic smile and edged quickly toward the door. “I have to go.”

  Apparently under the impression that she was no longer comfortable standing in the library with him now that their chaperone—if the sleeping gentleman could be considered such-had left them, he smiled and followed.

  “Of course. Perhaps I can convince the musicians to play that waltz a bit early and. . .”

  His voice trailed off as the elderly man, now half way down the hall, stopped in his tracks to inform a stout, middle-aged maid exiting from a nearby room that “it goes round!” And then, to illustrate his point, grabbed the poor woman about the waist and danced her in a circle.

  The maid yelped in surprise. “Good heavens!”

  “Oh, no.” Patience moved forward, but the man had completed the revolution, deposited the woman on her feet and bolted down the hall before she’d managed to take more than a few steps. Unwilling to draw more attention to the matter than absolutely necessary, she checked her pace into a brisk walk. When they reached the maid, she was patting her chest and gaping at her sudden and uninvited dance partner as he disappeared around a corner.

  “Are you all right?” Lord Casslebury inquired.

  “Oh. . .Aye.” The maid gave a breathless laugh. “Aye. Didn’t do me any harm, that one. Don’t think he meant to.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” Patience agreed quickly, and just as quickly resumed her brisk walk down the hall.

  “You’re in a great hurry,” Casslebury commented as he stepped up to walk beside her. “Are you eager to see what he might do next?”

  It was her fondest wish to remain utterly in the dark on the matter of the old man’s behavior, but she hadn’t that luxury. “Naturally, I’m curious,” she responded in what she very much hoped was an offhand manner.

  They reached the ballroom just in time to witness the elderly man pushing his way through the tremendous crush. In his rush, he knocked over a footman carrying a tray of champagne flutes, but he seemed not to hear the shattering of glass on the ballroom floor, nor the angry shouts of guests at the unexpected shower of wine. He simply continued his advance into the room.

  “Oh, no.” Giving up all hope of appearing merely curious, Patience dashed forward and began to push her way through the throng of people.

  The man stopped suddenly at a small group of matrons, grinned broadly at a dour looking woman in a bronze turban, grasped her face with both hands, and planted a loud and rather lewd kiss on her lips. He was gone again before the lady could so much as raise a hand to slap at him.

  Next to her, Lord Casslebury appeared caught somewhere between a
musement and disbelief. “Who the devil is that?”

  “I. . .” She elbowed her way further into the room. “I beg your pardon. I believe Mrs. Meldrin is motioning for me for me. I--”

  “I don’t see her.”

  She made a very broad, very vague wave in the direction of the front hall. “Over there. I have to go.”

  “Who is he--?“

  Another yelp sounded from somewhere in the room, along with another shattering of glass.

  “I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry. I have to go.” Her heart in her throat, she turned away and left him.

  She hadn’t the faintest idea where Mrs. Meldrin might be, but she found Caroline at the edge of the ballroom looking rather pale.

  “Caroline, did you see--?”

  “Yes.” Her friend took her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze, and led her into the front hall. “He’s gone upstairs.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I’m certain he’ll be fine. And guests aren’t paying him much mind.”

  “They paid plenty on the other side of the room. He knocked over footmen, broke heaven only knows what, and kissed Mrs. Lindsey on the mouth.”

  “Oh. Well.” Caroline winced sympathetically. “Father’s asked for the carriage to be brought round immediately. As soon as we find--”

  The elderly gentleman suddenly appeared at the top of the steps. Still grinning, he bounded down with the exuberance of a man half his age. “Bloody enormous place!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “How do I get out?”

  The moment he reached them, Patience placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Mr. Meldrin is having the carriage brought to the front. If you would sit for a minute, we’ll have you out and--”

  “No. No. Don’t trouble yourselves.” The man shook his head, and danced away from Patience’s grasp. “I’d something to do. Something. . .Ah!” He jabbed his finger up as he had in the library. “It goes round! It does! I need my workshop!”

  “You’ll have it. If you’ll just. . .”

  But he wasn’t listening to her. With a final whoop of excitement, he spun on his heel and dashed out the front door.

  * * *

  They found him twenty minutes later--trotting briskly down the street, grinning broadly and babbling cheerfully about going round the magnet. It took very little effort to convince him to get into the carriage, and it was a simple enough task to bring him home, press a bit of laudanum into him, and tuck him into bed. He was, at least, a congenial sort of madman.

  No small blessing, Patience told herself as she took a seat next to his bedside. He liked having someone sit by him at times like this, just as he liked to fiddle with his compass as the medicine settled his overwrought system, pulling him toward sleep.

  He tapped at the front of the compass. “Goes round you see. It all goes round.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Explains everything.”

  He had insisted for years that it explained everything, but there was little point in reminding him. He’d only forget again, and it gave him such pleasure each time he remembered.

  Accustomed to the ritual, Patience pried off her slippers with her toes and settled back in her chair. “I did something very bad tonight,” she told him, knowing full well the confession would accomplish nothing. The man before her didn’t know her from Eve at present, which meant he’d forget the entire conversation by tomorrow. But the talking seemed to soothe him, and her nagging conscience.

  “Did you now?” he asked absently.

  “I pretended not to know a member of my family.”

  “Ah, now, that’s no good. Important things, families. Important things. I’ve one of my own.”

  “I know.”

  “A daughter.” He turned the compass, frowned at it. “Nice girl. Used to bring me tea.”

  “Would you like some--”

  “Always put too much cream in it, though.”

  That startled a laugh out of her. “Did she? Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Tea is tea, and you know these young girls. They’ll fly off at the slightest provocation.” He yawned hugely. “Tell them their gowns are lovely, and they’ll think you’re insulting their hats.”

  She took the compass from hands that had grown lax. “I rather doubt she’s as sensitive as all that.”

  “Never know with girls.” His eyelids drooped. “Boys are easier. Should have had one of those.”

  “Boys aren’t likely to bring you tea. Overly creamed, or otherwise.”

  “All the same. Boys are easier.”

  “I rather wonder if mothers aren’t as well,” she said quietly and watched as his eyes closed and his breathing evened out in sleep. She stood and bent down to place a gentle kiss on the wrinkled brow of Sir Franklin Byerly. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  * * *

  Patience left her father to sleep and made her way downstairs, where the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Meldrin drifted from the library. It was a nightly ritual for them. Mrs. Meldrin would have her glass of warm milk, Mr. Meldrin his brandy and the two of them would sit before the fire and share a few quiet moments alone, discussing the events of the day.

  Patience sometimes left her door open at night, just to hear the murmurs of their conversation. She couldn’t make out the words, but her purpose was not to eavesdrop, it was merely to hear the sound. It was soothing, peaceful, and a welcome contrast to the bone-jarring bangs and crashes she’d fallen asleep to in the years before coming to stay with the Meldrins.

  As a child, she hadn’t minded the ruckus from her father’s workshop so very much. Their house had been old and drafty and by the time she was twelve, empty of staff. The disruption her father produced gave the house a bit of life, and in a way, kept loneliness at bay.

  But by fifteen, financial difficulties had forced them to sell their home and let rooms in London. She grew to dread the sound of her father working. It was inevitably followed by the angry pounding of fists on the thin walls, and the threatening shouts of neighbors. And that was eventually followed by the landlord arriving to pound on the door to issue a notice of eviction.

  She would find new rooms for them. Her father would promise to take better care. And he might, for a little while. But sooner or later, he would forget. Even when he’d been sane, he’d been forgetful. He’d forget to pay the rent, forget to pay the butcher. Forget not to spend what little income they had on some new scientific instrument, thereby making it impossible to pay the rent and the butcher.

  Her stomach twisted in knots at the memory. Then tightened further when she reached the library only to find the doors closed. The last time the Meldrins had closed the doors during their nightly conversations, one of the footmen had been caught stealing coins from Caroline’s reticule.

  She knocked with hands that wanted to shake, and grimaced when the voices from inside abruptly ceased.

  “Come in,” came Mr. Meldrin’s reply. He turned to frown at her as she pushed through the doors. “Patience, why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” She crossed the room to stand before them, and folded her hands in an effort to keep them from pulling at her skirts. “I want to apologize for what happened, and--”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Meldrin cut in. “Tonight’s trouble was not your fault.”

  But still her responsibility, Patience thought. “I shouldn’t have suggested we bring him along. It’s only. . .He has so enjoyed going out of late, and I never thought. . .He seemed well just this afternoon. He knew who I was and where--”

  “Not your fault,” Mr. Meldrin repeated. “We all thought him well enough to attend.”

  “Still, if I had--”

  “Enough,” Mr. Meldrin cut in sternly. “You’ll not take responsibility for this, Patience. Am I understood?”

  She wanted to argue, but knew the effort would be wasted. It wasn’t often that Mr. Meldrin put his foot down, but when he did, he became intractable.

  She nodded miserably. “Yes.”

  “Good.” He pointed a
t the door, and gentled his tone. “Now to bed with you. Things won’t appear quite so dire after a good night’s sleep.”

  Patience rather doubted that a few hours in bed would cast a more favorable light on her circumstances, but she nodded again and left. She closed the library door softly behind her, and then, after a brief internal battle between manners and dread of the unknown, she leaned her ear against the door and listened.

  “Something must be done, Charles,” Mrs. Meldrin said. “This cannot go on.”

  “What would you have me do? Throw them out?”

  “Certainly not,” came Mrs. Meldrin’s indignant reply, “but neither can we have his presence hinder, or even ruin, the girls’ prospects--”

  “I don’t think it will come to that,” Mr. Meldrin chided. “We need only do better at keeping him isolated, away from gossip-mongers and the like.”

  “How? And for how long? Shall we lock the man up every time we’ve a visitor come to call? Make excuses for every shout and bang that comes from his room?”

  “No, I suppose not.” There was a long pause in which Patience imagined Mr. Meldrin sighing heavily. “We’ll take him to the country with us after Christmas.”

  And leave him there, Patience finished in her mind. And that meant she would be left there as well. Not at the Meldrins’ insistence, they would never be so unkind, but she would remain all the same. She couldn’t abandon her father to the care of staff that neither understood nor cared for him.

  Exhausted in body and mind, she stepped away from the door and turned toward her room. It mattered little what was said now. The decision was made. To be fair, it was a generous solution, and one the Meldrins were in no way obligated to provide. Mr. Meldrin’s debt to an old friendship with her father had long ago been paid. He’d taken in both the man and the daughter over a year ago, bringing them along for a tour about Europe, feeding them, clothing them, treating them as family, and now financing a London season for her.

  Patience had hoped the drastic change in their circumstances would improve her father’s health. He never seemed to care overmuch that the roof in whatever rooms they’d been letting was falling down around them, but she had thought that surely, regular meals, adequate heating in the winter, and the cessation of the debt collectors hounding them would provide an environment more conducive to healing.